Page 206 of How to Kiss a Hawthorne Brother
“Maybe on the outside,” I mumble under my breath.
Don’t get me wrong. I didn’tdislikeTatum when we were in culinary school. But we were from two different worlds. We still are. And she doesn’t belong on Stonebrook Farm.
Zach eyes me curiously. “What’s that supposed to mean? Do you know her?” His gaze shifts back to Tatum, almost like it’s hard for him to look away.
There’s a hunger in his expression that ignites something primal, deep in my gut, and I find myself resisting the urge to bodily move in between Zach and the window to block his view.
The impulse doesn’t make any logical sense. I have no claim on Tatum, nor do I want one. Zach can look all he wants.
“We went to culinary school together,” I say, proud of how evenly neutral my words sound.
Olivia pulls up in a Stonebrook Farm Gator, one of the oversized utility vehicles staff use to get around the hundreds of acres of farm property. She climbs out and welcomes Tatum, pulling her into a hug like they’re long-lost friends.
They talk for a few moments, then Tatum moves to the back of her SUV and opens the hatch. A giant, black and white dog jumps out, tail wagging. Tatum crouches down and scratches the dog’s ears, her smile wide as she says something to Olivia over her shoulder, then they both start to laugh.
“Yeah, I see it now, boss,” Zach says, his tone dry. “This woman looks like a real monster.”
“I never said she was amonster.I just don’t—” I bite my tongue. I promised my sister I wouldn’t say anything to taint my employees’ opinions of Tatum. They won’t have to work with her directly, but it’s still important they respect her. Which means I’ve already said too much to Zach. “Anyway.” I clear my throat. “She’s basically culinary royalty.”
“What does that mean?” Zach asks.
Olivia and Tatum move toward the door, the dog falling into step beside her, and I feel a sudden need to flee. To look busy. To be doing something other than gawking at them through the dining room windows when Olivia brings her in to show her around.
“It means Christopher Elliott is her father,” I say as I turn and head to my office.
I pass the prep cooks already at work in my kitchen. Griffin and Willow are standing close to the saucier station, clearly arguing about something, but I don’t bother to intervene. In another half hour, I’ll gather the staff for a pre-dinner service meeting, and I have every confidence they’ll bring up their frustrations without me chasing after them.
Zach is quick on my heels. “Hold up. You’re telling me you went to culinary school with Christopher Elliott’s daughter? Did you meet him? What’s he like?”
I refrain from saying any of the words that pop into my head at his question. My feelings about Tatum’s father definitely won’t help my staff maintain their respect.
I lift my shoulders with feigned indifference. “He’s exactly what you might expect of a celebrity chef.”
Apparently, Zach’s expectations are different than mine, because he’s practically beaming with starry-eyed wonder. “Man.Christopher Elliott.That guy’s amazing.”
Sure.Amazing.If amazing means entitled, arrogant, and condescending.
Zach follows me to my office, pausing in the doorway while I drop into my chair. “I still don’t get it. What’s the punchline?” He leans against my door jamb, his arms folded.
I lift my eyebrows.
“Come on,” he says, like the question is obvious. “Christopher Elliott’s daughter? In the middle of nowhere running a catering kitchen that serves farm-style weddings and family reunions?”
I don’t like that Zach so easily landed on the question that’s been plaguing me since Olivia hired Tatum in the first place.
“Don’t forget the corporate retreats,” I say.
Zach shakes his head. “Is she any good?”
“She’s good enough to work in her father’s flagship restaurant in L.A.”
“She worked at Le Vin?” Zach asks.
I nod. “That’s where she was before coming here.”
That she started her career working with one of America’s most famous chefs only highlights how different we are. Tatum was always my biggest competition in culinary school. Every exam. Every evaluation. We might as well have been the only two people in class for how focused we were on beating each other.But it never felt like a fair fight. While she was doing unpaid internships shadowing chefs at the finest restaurants in Atlanta, I wasworkingmy way through school in chain restaurants—washing dishes, prepping vegetables, doing whatever I could to be in a kitchen.Any kitchen.
She didn’t just have better knives—which she totally did—she had bettereverything. Better resources. Better opportunities. Extra time with professors. More exposure.
